


the still and silent sea

by Destina



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 04:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2837318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destina/pseuds/Destina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the still and silent sea that drowns a man.<br/>-- Old Norse proverb</p>
            </blockquote>





	the still and silent sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [killabeez](https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/gifts).



> A Yuletide treat for Killa.

Days in Hedeby seem twice as cold as the winters in Kattegat. The snow piles in drifts against the walls, seeping in through cracks as if drawn to the fire. It is an unpleasant place, filled with unpleasant duties, but this is the bargain Lagertha struck for the sake of her son, and only a woman without honor would run from it. So she bears her husband's scorn, his critique, even his assault, and reminds herself that she must respect him, no matter that he is a pile of goat shit with the manners of a boar and a heart colder than Skaði's breath. 

"You must leave him," Bjorn tells her, with the murderous urgency of newly-forged manhood. He looks so like his father, but he lacks Ragnar's gentle patience and sense of strategy. These are things she would have his father teach him, but she has shackled her son to Sigvard's control. 

"I cannot," she says, pressing her hands to his. Her hands are soft, now, barren of calluses, unused to wielding weapons. She must find a way to change his path, for his sake, and for her own. 

She begins with the shield, which is fitting. These are the ways her mother and father taught her when she was but a girl: how to mend the cracks and holes, and how to ensure the grip was tight and straight. She repairs the damaged leather with her own hands and drives in new nails to reinforce the seasoned wood. 

Songs float to mind as she strengthens her protection, the same songs she taught Gyda. She works the wood and leather the way she once wove with her daughter, before Gyda was but a gentle ghost to haunt her mother's memory. 

Her second task is the sword, a gift from Ragnar after the first battle they fought and won together. She remembers his face streaked crimson with blood, and the way he dragged his leg behind him for days until it healed. Her memory also conjures the way his eyes sparked with lust when he saw her standing proudly, unharmed. She runs the blade on the stone, returning sharpness and shine to its edges and smoothing away the jagged bits until her blade could cleave a mountain in two with one skilled blow. 

"Why do you waste your time with this?" Sigvard hovers, overly concerned with things which are not his business, or his choice. "You are no longer a shield maiden. Legendary warrior." The way he says it leaves no doubt what he thinks of those tales, which are not tales but truths. 

Lagertha turns the blade against the stone, over and over again. "Why should you care if I sharpen this blade? It is nothing to you. Am I not a dutiful wife?"

"Hardly that." 

She expects him to begin his endless recitation of her faults, then - and attach to them a stern lecture about her duty to love him, since he has given her his heart. It is good that he does not, because she has grown tired of capturing words in her throat, and she might remind him that his is not a heart worth keeping. 

There is a day coming, not far off, when she will cut his chest open and see for herself if that heart is as diseased and black as she has long suspected. 

She does not ask permission to go, because it is not for Sigvard to give, whether or not he believes otherwise. She merely asks the warriors she believes to be strong enough to fight, and loyal enough to understand what it means to fight for what is lost. She spends her own share of treasure on horses and supplies, and they ride. 

The undertaking is well worth it to see the joy in Bjorn's face when he is reunited with his father, but Lagertha pretends not to see the wistful pride in Ragnar's face when he looks from their son, to her. Happiness is a thing she has left behind on Kattegat's shore; best not to go digging for it now. 

She has missed Athelstan's shy, beaming smile, and the way his arms hold her fiercely when she pulls him close, so it grieves her that he is not there to welcome her, and that he is not by Ragnar's side. She has even missed Rollo's grudging respect, but now there is something new in his regard for her, something wiser, more tested. She cannot trust it to be true, but she trusts Ragnar, and that is enough. 

Then there is Auslag, and the children, and the sight of them pulls at her heart and her womb. Even so, she does not mourn for what she has lost, or for what she has not gained. She has so much. 

They fight. Some die. It is the way of things. She revels in the smell of blood, the cries of the dying, and the strength of her own arm as it sends the sword to strike true. Her heart surges to life once again when she stands at Ragnar's side, an equal; when she looks at her son, a warrior his father may take pride in. For that was the objective, after all, and it has all come down to this: what is best for her son. 

She leaves Bjorn behind, as she must, as she hoped, and the women murmur of her strength and courage, because they understand she has left her heart on the ground. 

She refuses Ragnar's offer, because there is still Auslag, and Lagertha is above taking back what could be hers, if she wants it. It is, once again, her choice. 

For now. 

The last thing she does before she leaves Kattegat is barter for a dagger. It is not a new blade, but one that was well-blooded in combat before its former user rose to Valhalla. It will do. She sharpens it carefully and tucks it away safely at her breast. And then, finally, she mounts her horse and turns her back to all the things she loves. 

Her husband - for all that he has not earned that title in more than name - is not pleased by her return. Surely he wishes some weak warrior's blade had pierced her and rid him of her troublesome presence, for that would be the honorable way to end his marriage. He is not honorable, and she is more than a match for those faceless men he doubtless imagined would do the deed. 

There are other ways, of course. Only a coward sets his men on a woman in her home, but then, it is not really her home, and it was not unexpected. It has only strengthened her resolve, and Bjorn is no longer in danger from her husband's wrath. He is safe, and strong, and far from this place. 

Lagertha waits, and when she can wait no longer, she lifts her head. 

She is Lagertha, shield maiden, feared warrior. She is the still and silent sea, rising up to swallow men whole, to take their treasure and their lives, and erase all trace of what they once were. She is a leader of men. She is vengeance, wise and patient; she is - as she has always been - what she chooses, not what is chosen for her. 

She drives the dagger home, and becomes.


End file.
